Blood Dust of the Karoo

Like an invading force from the north, the heat fueled wind wages war on lands already ravaged and weakened by a crippling drought. The brutal onslaught carves through the ground and the red Karoo dust haemorrhages out into the air, whipped into a crazed frenzy by a whirling wind dervish.

A bent, creaking windmill stands steadfast. A lone warrior with armour clanking and creaking as it absorbs the punishing, pummeling gusts, blades flashing and slicing with a speed that belies its age.

The cruel tempest relentlessly drives the blood red soil into funneled dust columns that swirl and twirl, until dizzy and dissipated by the force, the sand particles drift like displaced refugees over the landscape in a murky haze.

Howling a victory scream, the wind gusts away, still beating a swathe through dessicated trees and stunted grassland.

In its wake, the veld lies shredded. A few forlorn sheep pick their way through the debris like mourners searching for solace.

The windmill blades turn ever more slowly and then like a battle weary veteran, stand still……composed…..poised for battle once more.